


You Can Hear the Wind

by Serinah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, John in pain, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Self-Doubt, Sherlock has feelings, Sherlock in pain, Sherlock's in shock, mild depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serinah/pseuds/Serinah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers he can feel emotions after all. He’s just not sure what he’s supposed to do about them. And why is John always upset with him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. …But you don’t know…

He can’t breathe.

 

_Strong fingers on his throat - pain in the chest – blurry face of an enraged man in front of him – can’t-can’t-can’t-_

 

Sherlock takes two long strides to the window, wrenches it open and takes a deep breath of an early-evening August air. In under a second John is next to him, peering out over his shoulder.

 

“Something happening outside? What did you see?”

 

_Back off._ There’s an acidic uproar in his belly and bile in his mouth.

 

“Sherlock? You all right?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

_Back off._

_Please._

 

“You look a bit peaky,” John says, putting a hand on his shoulder.

 

Then there are fingers on his forehead. Nothing sensual, just a casual feeling for his temperature and brushing through a lock near his ear, but it’s everything, everything – it’s too much – Sherlock jerks away and retreats deeper into the room.

 

“I’m fine,” he barks.

 

“You feel hot.”

 

"I don’t need a doctor."

 

He hears John sigh. “Have you eaten today?”

 

_Or a mother._

 

Sherlock grabs the violin from his armchair and steps to the other window. Some angry Bach should do it.

 

“Come on,” John says in his ‘let’s-be-adult-about-this’ voice. “I’ll make you a toast and then we’ll order Chinese.”

 

The Bach turns even more _staccato_ \- definitely more than it should be-, but Sherlock doesn’t even wish to moderate it.

 

Sherlock hears another sigh from behind him. “Fine. All right then. I’m off.”

 

To a date.

 

Sherlock stops playing.

 

A date with a _man._

 

Sherlock’s brain is a mass of discordant thoughts. No, not thoughts. Feelings. Disgusting.

 

_Fine. Just_ \- He swallows thickly. _Just fine._

 

oOo

 

Beep.

 

„John, a text,“ Sherlock shouts and glances back out the window. Light drizzle. Chill. Matches. He raises his bow.

 

„What?“ John answers from the bathroom.

 

„A text,“ Sherlock repeats. “Get it!” And resumes his play.

 

„Get it yourself, I’m in the shower.“

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

“As well as am. Starkers,” John shouts back and Sherlock’s rhythm falters, a note halts, unfinished. For a moment the sombre September rain in front of his eyes is replaced by vivid images of John’s hot slick skin, angular shoulder blades and a lone drop sliding down his neck.

 

Vaguely he hears the bathroom door slam and the world rights itself. Sherlock glances at the mobile on the mantelpiece and grits his teeth. He puts the violin down. After a moment he’s already staring at the phone in his hand.

 

But John told him to get it, didn’t he? Sherlock grimaces and puts the phone back.

 

oOo

 

“The text,” Sherlock says flatly and lifts _The Guardian_ in front of his face.

 

John is dressed up. New shoes. Fresh shave, a button down instead of one of his customary jumpers.

 

A date.

 

“What?” John turns around. He seems distracted.

 

“The text,” Sherlock bites out.

 

“Right.” John nods, annoyed. “Couldn’t you get it yourself?”

 

Sherlock sends him a look. “I thought I was forbidden from touching your private correspondence?” 

 

John sighs. “You meant _I_ had a text?”

 

Sherlock stares at him pointedly.

 

“Right.” John reaches towards the mantelpiece on which his phone lies. “Oh,” he says after half a minute.

 

The ‘oh’ is disappointed and Sherlock glances up from behind his paper. John is still staring at the text.

 

“Stood you up, did he?” Sherlock tries to sound indifferent, but knows that John will probably hear the glee in his tone anyway. “You don’t seem to be doing any better with men than women after all, do you? Maybe you should stick to what you know?”

 

“That has nothing to do with gender, as you well know.” John pockets the phone. “I just have to start paying them more attention than I do you. Besides, for once, your deduction is wrong. Craig’s not standing me up; he’s just late. Something’s come up apparently.”

 

“A better offer?”

 

John glares at him, then sits on the armrest of his armchair and sighs resignedly. “Look, I know the business has been somewhat slow recently, but there’s no reason to start getting at me, is there? You want me to blog a cry for help for you?”

 

“A cry-? What?” Sherlock throws _The Guardian_ on the sofa, and jumps up. “A cry for help? And exactly what, pray tell me, do I need help with? Just because there’s no ‘three-continents’ to my name doesn’t mean-”

 

“Sherlock,” John says with a slightly bewildered look on his face. “I meant more cases. Work for your brain. Nothing more.”

 

Sherlock feels a weird hotness spreading from his chest towards his neck. He lifts his chin a notch higher. It’s just digestion, shouldn’t have eaten today.

 

“You should be more precise with your wording.” He lies back down and grabs the discarded paper.

 

“I do know how you feel about relationships, Sherlock. You made it perfectly clear that first time at Angelo’s.”

 

The Guardian stares at him, letters a pointless mesh. Discarding the paper, Sherlock scoffs, stands up again and steps on the table, marching straight to the fridge. It’s probably time to resume with the caterpillars versus grubs experiment anyway. Thankfully John decides to let the argument go. Incidentally. Incidentally, not thankfully.

 

It is only an hour later that he notices that John is out, and two hours and forty-seven minutes after that he hears him come back in an apparently fabulous mood, whistling. Sherlock pays no attention.

 

oOo

 

Of course, Sherlock knows that John was interested in him when they first met. But it had been just hero worship, hadn’t it? Before Dr Craig D. Harper he’d never even dreamt that John could feel anything sexual towards a man. Had John been actually _interested_? Sherlock has no idea.

 

“I’m going out,“ John shouts from the door and bounds down the stairs without waiting for a response.

 

_Crack_ , goes the pen between Sherlock’s fingers. John isn’t supposed to date men. It turns out to be the first time since he started up with Craig where John doesn’t come back before morning.

 

oOo

 

In November, somewhere between the twenty-first and twenty-fourth date, Sherlock notices a change in John. He’s tense and moody. He doesn’t grab his phone straight after the beep and often leaves the room to read the text or take the call.

 

Then there’s an eleven-day pause between the dates and the sudden “I’m going out” from John is startling.

 

“Where?” Sherlock doesn’t like feeling startled.

 

John turns to him, a look of slight surprise on his face. “What? Can’t you deduce it yourself?”

 

Sherlock raises his eyes from the screen and blinks slowly. “Of course I can, I just want to hear you say it.”

 

John rolls his eyes, annoyed. He’s not dressed up, but the clothes are decent and fresh and it’s just after seven. It’s not a date. Sherlock relaxes.

 

Or he’s stopped making an effort and it is a date. Sherlock’s sudden inability to tell is alarming.

 

“Well?” John asks, putting his jacket on.

 

His best jacket. Could be a coincidence. Or a date. He still looks good enough for it. Except that John tends to be self-conscious, so it’s probably not.

 

“Groceries,” Sherlock risks. “We’re out of milk,” he remembers.

 

“Right. Omniscient as always. You need anything?”

 

“No, thanks.”

 

oOo

 

John sniffs, then sneezes. His nose is red and eyes watery.

 

“Go home, you’re a liability,” Sherlock hisses under his breath.

 

“I said I’m fine!”

 

“Sh!” He runs behind another cargo container. Stubbornly, John follows.

 

“Hey!” he hears a rough voice from behind and turns. “Don’t you bloody move!” the thug yells, a gun aimed at Sherlock, but there’s a shot from behind. His attacker falls and John grabs his elbow. Then they run left and crouch between a lorry and a wall. John wipes his nose with the hand that’s holding the SIG. His mouth is open and he’s blinking furiously.

 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ Sherlock chants in his head because John is in no shape to fight and Sherlock had known that and still he– 

 

“Let’s go,” John orders and is away.

 

Sherlock follows him into a warehouse and behind tall crate towers.

 

“Do you think there’re more of them?”

 

Sherlock can see the warm air coming out of John’s mouth; it’s so cold.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Unlikely,” he mutters under his breath. John’s doesn’t have a scarf. Why doesn’t he have a scarf?

 

“You’re just saying that. There’s no way for you to know.”

 

“Then why did you ask?”

 

Sherlock probably sounds too harsh, but John usually doesn’t mind. Now, though, his jaw clenches and he doesn’t answer. Sherlock contemplates sneaking towards the cubicle type office located to their left, but the thought of dragging an unwell John with him is unappealing.

 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks after a while.

 

“Fine.”

 

“I mean the cold.”

 

“I said, I’m fine!”

 

Suddenly the overhead lights come on and there’s a sound of several pairs of feet running towards them. Harvey is shouting to his men to spread. Sherlock freezes and John raises his gun, but before the smugglers reach their hiding place they hear police sirens.

 

oOo

 

When John finally emerges form the interrogation room he looks even more ill than before. The idiot has a temperature.

 

He startles when he sees Sherlock and frowns. “You shouldn’t have waited for me.”

 

“Lestrade wanted to go over some cases with me. How did it go?”

 

“There’s going to be a hearing, but there’s the security footage, so it’s just a formality.”

 

“Yes, I told them to take a look at it.”

 

“Of course, you did. No reason to worry then, was there?”

 

“Why would I worry?” Sherlock asks before he realises that John was just being sarcastic.

 

During the taxi ride John sneezes and blows his nose several times, and when they enter the flat John heads straight upstairs.

 

“Tea?” Sherlock asks, because John always makes tea before bed, but the only answer he gets is forceful stomping and a door slam.

 

oOo

 

Several weeks of John’s moody avoidance and occasional sarcasm have Sherlock on edge. Other people telling him to piss off literally or figuratively he can deal with; John being vindictive, he can’t, so when one Friday his flatmate comes down in his best button-down and new slacks-

 

“You seeing Craig still?” Sherlock snaps.

 

John’s eyebrows rise. “Of course I’m still seeing him.”

 

For a minute they face off, neither saying anything.

 

“You don’t like him,” John states. “Why? You told me he was trustworthy.”

 

Sherlock shrugs and turns on his back, closing his eyes. “He’s boring.”

 

John scoffs, dismissively. “For you maybe.”

 

Sherlock grabs his violin. Raises it to his shoulder and stops. Lowers the instrument.

 

“Dr Craig D. Harper has had several partners, but he never commits fully. He’s an overachiever and his work always comes first. He has no hobbies, no passions. He likes his little routines and is repetitive in bed. His car is a testament to his numerous complexes and he visits his mother once a week like a mummy’s boy.”

 

When John speaks his tone is cold. “What you mean to say is that Craig is hard-working, loyal, and has had little luck in his love?” 

 

Sherlock wishes he hadn’t spoken.

 

oOo

 

“Did you break up with Craig?” he asks almost two weeks later.

 

John’s facial muscles spasm for a moment and Sherlock spots several expressions he can distinguish, among them - curiously - panic. Frustration and resentment are the ones to stay.

 

“No.”

 

“Are you going to?”

 

“What? No. Why?”

 

Sherlock looks John up and down as he sits in his armchair, laptop on his knees.

 

“You don’t look like a man with a burgeoning love affair. Bags under your eyes, mouth set in a grim line; you work a lot, you’re always tired, rarely talk and you tense every time there’s a text. The last time you dressed up to go out you asked me if there was any chance that I might need you for a case that evening.”

 

John looks away and - is that _shame? What in the world could John be ashamed of?_

 

“No. We haven’t broken up.” He’s silent for a moment. “Not yet anyway.”

 

Sherlock almost opens his mouth once again, but the past few weeks have quite effectively cured him of honest questions. John snaps more often than not and though his eyes are back on the screen, the expression on his face says plainly that if pushed, he’ll leave ‘to get some air’. There are four good scenarios and seven flimsy guesses floating around in Sherlock’s brain about how this conversation could play out.

 

Before Sherlock knows what is happening he is up at the fireplace, his hand reaching for his secret stash.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Where did you put them?”

 

“Threw them out.”

 

It’s just so frustrating to have no clue which scenario he should choose. He grabs his coat and goes out.

 

“No one will sell you any!” John shouts.

 

Sherlock isn’t sure if the almost sing-song quality to John's voice is real or imagined.

 

From the start Sherlock had known that one day John would tire of his social handicap, but it has taken too long. Sherlock has grown to rely on John’s acceptance, and now the biting questions and bouts of impatience are baffling.

 

What had John said back when he’d just moved in? Trust issues? Could it be that John has always trusted him with his physical wellbeing but never with matters of the heart and Sherlock has just been too challenged at relationships to realise?

 

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. Had it been anyone else he’d confront them with all his acerbity head on, but in this case he finds himself oddly reluctant. Would it help clear the air or just make John push back? Pull away? Sherlock decides to leave it for the time being.

 

oOo

 

By December Sherlock is ready to climb up the walls. Correction – he is climbing up the walls. The periodic table in his bedroom has come down at any rate. Unfortunately, John has hidden his gun (probably gave it to Mrs Hudson for safekeeping) and gone on a date. The blender offered a distraction for twenty-three point seven minutes. And John is out with his _boyfriend_ , and more writing implements have been sacrificed to the cause of relieving the tension: an old-fashioned fountain pen is sticking out from between old bookcase boards.

 

“Mrs Hudson!” he yells, but the landlady either doesn’t hear or is ignoring him. “Tea!” he shouts, not actually expecting an answer.

 

He grabs his coat and bounds down the stairs because it is this or a cigarette, which he couldn’t get anyway because apparently John has now paid off everyone in the vicinity into not selling him any tobacco products. He could take a few tube stations, of course… And that would piss John off when he found out. The idea had merit.

 

oOo

 

_John, oh God, oh God, oh God, John!_ He manages to utter only the last word.

 

“It’s just a scratch, Sherlock, I’m fine.” John presses a tea towel to his wound.

 

“You’re bleeding, I’m calling an ambulance.”

 

“I’m a doctor, I can assess my own injuries thank you very much,” John says but his tone is less annoyed and more faint. He slumps into a kitchen chair.

 

“Nonsense.” Sherlock dashes into the living room for his phone. “You can’t dress the wound yourself.”

 

“Fine, but you better call Sarah, I don’t need an ambulance.”

 

“A&E then.”

 

“No, I hate waiting there. Besides, it’s not like I can put a coat on and it’s freezing outside.”

 

“You need stitches. I’m calling for an ambulance.” Sherlock starts dialling.

 

“No!” John’s grip on his wrist is surprisingly strong. “I hate strange medical personnel in my home and it’s just a scratch.”

 

“ _Stitches_ , John.”

 

“Fine. But call Sarah. She can sew me up and tell you I’m fine, all right?”

 

They stare at each other for a bit.

 

“I don’t have her number.”

 

“Oh, for the love of- get me my phone.”

 

In the end Sherlock doesn’t even let John make the call, half-afraid that he’ll tell her there’s no hurry or even to drop by the next day.

 

“Sarah? John’s hurt himself. Claiming he’s fine, but his wrist’s in ribbons, could you grab some bandages and come over? He’s refusing the ambulance and he needs stitches… No, it was a domestic accident… No, I said accident, not violence. There was no violence involved… What? No it’s…Just get down here, all right? … Yes. Thank you.”

 

Sherlock disconnects and sets the phone on the table. He sits next to John and offers him another tea towel, but the other man shakes his head.

 

“She’s on her way. How come you’ve managed to stay friends with her? Your other exes hate your guts.”

 

“She’s special, I guess.” He shrugs.

 

Sherlock takes a peek at his face, but there’s no more than a ghost of a smile. Fondness, affection? Love? Sherlock’s not sure.

 

John has a natural talent for making friends, so it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. One ex out of a dozen is bound to be more tolerant than others. Besides, John has a boyfriend now.

 

It’s only two long hours later, after the ex has arrived, bandaged the wrist, listened to the ‘funny’ story involving the blender’s loose blades, drunk some therapeutic tea, and finally scarpered off to wherever she came from in the first place, that Sherlock feels he can take a breather.

 

He relaxes on the sofa opposite his wounded flatmate. “I should have… told you about taking the blender apart.” 

 

“Yes, you should have.”

 

John sounds very casual and Sherlock glances at him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says with put-on indifference, but it sounds disdainful instead.

 

“What?” John looks startled.

 

“You heard me.” Sherlock adopts his best mask of nonchalance.

 

John’s eyebrows are raised. “Yes, I did. I’d better mark it down in my calendar,” he adds almost good-naturedly.

 

Sherlock frowns. “Aren’t you angry?”

 

“How would that help? Besides, it’s not the first time you’ve caused me severe physical discomfort. On the scale of one to ten it’s a four at best.“ He smiles.

 

Sherlock finds himself smiling back and there’s a moment where they just sit and look at each other. John swallows thickly. There’s something in his eyes and Sherlock is suddenly leaning slightly forward. He raises his hand to touch his friend’s cheek. John’s eyes widen and he jerks back. Sherlock’s hand drops and he tears his gaze back towards the fireplace.

 

“Well, lately you have been rather angry,” Sherlock resumes as if nothing happened. To his surprise, his voice is even and casual. “Snapping at anything. I wasn’t sure if it was work or life in general, or Craig or… me.”

 

John nods. Sherlock senses waves of tension coming off John, hears him clearing his throat and turns to look at him. John’s face is a picture of utter misery and regret. When he opens his mouth to speak, Sherlock panics.

 

“I just remembered, we are out of analgesic.” He jumps up. “I’m going to drop by the chemist, it might close soon.”

 

He never wants to see John looking at him like that again.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock is leaning on the kitchen door frame. His arms are crossed over his chest, spine taut with raw tension. His anger has been simmering for days. Even standing still is now a struggle.

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says flatly.

 

John stills, but resumes his tea preparation after only a moment.

 

“What? Where do you get that from?” His attempt at casual is less than convincing and they both know it.

 

“Don’t insult my intelligence, John. Even Anderson would’ve picked up on that.” He puts his hands into his trouser pockets. “You come home late, you eat, then go to your room. I know you don’t sleep, because I can hear you pace every ten minutes.”

 

“I don’t pace every ten- it’s not…” He shakes his head, standing at the counter with his rigid back towards Sherlock. “I’m not actually avoiding _you_. Not everything in my life is about you, you know!”

 

“I’m aware,” Sherlock mutters bitterly before he can catch himself.

 

John whirls around.

 

“Some bloody awful nerve you have there!” he almost yells. “Is it not enough that during cases I chase after you like a faithful puppy, run your errands and take your bloody phone calls. I cook, shop, clean and even text for you while you’re sprawled on your damn sofa! You interrupt my dates, have no respect for my privacy, and you keep body parts in our fridge! And for some silly reason I just let you! So I ask you now, what - more - do - you - want from me?”

 

“You’re being hysterical,” Sherlock says, his voice quiet, face impassive, but something in his demeanour makes John’s shoulders slump as he looks away.

 

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…” He shakes his head in a dejected manner. “Look. I really didn’t want to do this over Christmas, but… I think I need to move out.”

 

The words are like a physical blow and the answering ‘no’ gets stuck in Sherlock’s throat. John sits down at the table and nudges the other chair out for Sherlock. There’s a moment of stillness before Sherlock can make himself move to sit down.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John repeats.

 

“No need.” His voice is rough.

 

“No, I went a bit off the handle just now. You know I don’t really mind the housework and all of that stuff.” 

 

“Don’t lie,” Sherlock says harshly. “It’s unproductive if you can’t do it well.”

 

“I’m not-“

 

“I- I know I’m a nightmare to live with, all right? I know that. You’ve said it enough times and I even warned you before you moved in! I know I’m not cut out for relationships. I-“

 

“Sherlock, it’s okay. I know, okay. Just take a deep, slow breath. Just breathe. All right? Better now?”

 

He breathes and it gets easier.

 

“You want to move out.” Sherlock’s voice is still flat with disbelief.

 

John nods. “I think it’s for the best,” he says quietly. “No, let me finish, please. It was just… well. I’m sorry for being so irritable lately and for the snapping and… well…My feelings have been all over the place for the last several months and…” John’s voice turns shaky for a moment but he braves on. “The first thing you have to understand is that I really didn’t mean all the things I said about following you around and the cooking and everything, because I’ve never really minded that-“

 

“I can do my own washing.”

 

“You are missing the point.”

 

“Right. The point is that your feelings have been all over the place and I’m using you.”

 

“No, Sherlock. No, you are definitely not using me. Or if you are then I’m quite happily letting you. No, my point is that I was just angry and spouting rubbish. I know that you value my friendship in your own way. I apologise.”

 

Sherlock nods. Looks at John’s honest and keen expression and gets furious.

 

“Right. Good one. Only you forgot one seemingly insignificant detail.”

 

John’s eyebrows furrow.

 

“I’m not of average intellect. In case you’re still in doubt, it means stupid.”

 

John sits up straight, no doubts biting words on his tongue, but Sherlock cuts him off.

 

“According to you, you’ve been emotional for several months (about Craig, I presume), but you’re decidedly not angry at me for using you as unpaid labour, so you and I are fine. Good! Fine! But why move out then? To move in with Craig perhaps? Yes, it’s the next logical step. Except no, it can’t be, because you two just broke up last Thursday! It wasn’t difficult to deduce, by the way,” he adds the last one more calmly. “Admit it, you moving out because I’m being impossible to live with seems a much more feasible theory. Unless you’re lying about something or withholding facts.”

 

John rubs his forehead with his thumb. “I can’t believe you actually want to talk about it.” He sounds weary and put out. “You know as well as I do that Craig has very little to do with it.”

 

“Right. So it must be my deplorable flatmate manners.” He lifts his chin in confirmation. “Because housework is negotiable, you know.”

 

John frowns, confused. When he speaks, he sounds shocked. “You really don’t know?”

 

Sherlock stares at him in frustration. “I wouldn’t be asking if I did, would I?”

 

Slowly John slumps in his seat. For a long minute, he stares searchingly into Sherlock’s eyes and sighs. “You really don’t know.” This time he sounds bewildered. “Come on, Sherlock, with your powers of deduction it is impossible for you not to know by now. Or at least suspect.”

 

The unexpected anguish in John’s gaze makes Sherlock’s heart beat in a rapid rhythm. All of a sudden he has a heavy feeling in his gut. He wants to say ‘stop, don’t tell me’, but John’s gaze is holding his and he can’t speak, look away or even breathe properly. 

 

Finally, John clears his throat, looks down at his hands and starts, “Over the course of the past several months I’ve come to realise that… there is a certain… disparity in the way we … feel about each other.”

 

And with just a few halting words Sherlock’s carefully constructed world crumbles. He blinks and focuses his eyes on some distant, blurry part of the kitchen counter.

 

“Disparity?” he repeats.

 

“Yes.”

 

Sherlock feels John’s eyes on him, but cannot look at him. “I don’t understand,” he denies.

 

Sigh. Silence.

 

“Love, Sherlock. I’m talking about being in love,” John explains quietly.

 

“Is that what it is then?” Sherlock pauses. “Love?” His voice cracks on the word.

 

“Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is,” John says gently, as if he’s afraid that otherwise Sherlock will fall into pieces. As if it’s not too late already.

 

Sherlock nods, acknowledging, raises his head and levels a determined gaze toward the man he’s apparently in love with.

 

“And your solution is to move out?”

 

“I…” John’s voice falters. He looks down and his eyes tear up.

 

He looks absolutely miserable. John is in pain, and Sherlock hates himself. He’s never seen John cry before and he doesn't want to, but right now, he can’t look away.

 

“I don’t understand,” he repeats. “Why would you want to move out? If it’s been like that for months, then why does anything have to change at all?”

 

“Because it hurts,” John admits as if it’s obvious, which it probably is.

 

Sherlock just nods again, because evidently he’s just utterly useless at relationships and John has probably finishing his doctorate. After all, while he started to realise his feelings only several weeks back, John has apparently been aware of them for months and months now.

 

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock says after a minute and immediately winces, because John’s reaction is a painful choke-sob-laugh. “Sorry,” he adds, ashamed but at loss as to how he has managed to hurt John even more.

 

It’s secondary school all over again. Childhood, hurt friends, bewildered relatives, his mummy in tears and him, unaware of what he’s said wrong or how to make it better. An obscure monster in a china shop, destructive without purpose.

 

“It’s fine,” John says then and his smile is sad, sad, sad, resigned and so understanding it cuts Sherlock like a blade.

 

Sherlock swallows. “I don’t like seeing you hurt, but I don’t want you to move out either.”

 

“Neither do I, but if I stay here for much longer we might not be able to hold on to our friendship and I don’t think I can risk that.”

 

For the first time in years Sherlock feels like crying, but he seems to have forgotten how. Now it all just burns inside of him.

 

“I don’t...” His voice is hoarse. “I’m prepared to give you anything you ask for. I’m not going to... Anything that I’m able to deliver, John. Anything at all for you to stay. Just stay.” Sherlock knows he’s begging, but he can’t stop himself.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock swallows thickly and nods. “And it… this disparity… It’s hurting you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t understand,” he repeats again brokenly.

 

“I know you don’t,” John says but it’s not an answer at all and Sherlock wants to hit something.

 

“And there’s nothing I can do or say to make you reconsider?”

 

“No.”

 

Silence.

 

“But… If you move out now? You will be back?”

 

“God, I hope so.”

 

“When?”

 

“I don’t know. As soon as I can.”

 

Slowly, Sherlock feels his customary coolness return and his brain picking up speed again.

 

“And how is this moving out supposed to help?”

 

“Distance… should help the feelings to abate. Theoretically.”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

“Theoretically?” he repeats after several seconds.

 

John shrugs. “It usually does.”

 

More silence.

 

“So basically, you’re just going to wait for the feelings to abate?”

 

“More or less. Yes.”

 

“Right. So I’m just going to have to trust you with that then. Seeing as I’ve got no prior experience.”

 

John smiles sadly.

 

“And is there anything I can do to help it?”

 

“No, I don’t think so. You just live your life. Don’t pay too much attention to me or my problems. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Of course you will.”

 

For some reason John winces and Sherlock looks away. He’ll make sure that the feelings go. Or if they won’t, he’ll make sure that John believes that they have. He will make John come back no matter what.

 

Sherlock stands up and takes John’s favourite tea out. “When are you going?”

 

“In the morning I think. Harry won’t mind. Much.”

 

“Want any help with packing or carrying?”

 

There’s brief silence before John answers, “No, thank you.” And after some more silence he adds, “Actually… I think I’d prefer if you weren’t here at all while I go.”

 

His words are calm and measured and Sherlock’s hand stills over the mugs. He doesn’t move again until John’s footsteps have faded away.

 

oOo

 

There are small mementoes of John all over the place; not many - John’s always been quite fastidious – but they are there and Sherlock can’t ignore them nor put them away. Mostly it’s not actually John’s possessions, but some books he’s moved around, the half-eaten cake in the fridge – now decaying -, even dirty socks found amongst his washing result in a pang in his chest.

 

Sherlock forgets to eat, which is not that different, but the last time he went out he felt curiously light-headed and it took him a while to realise what might be the problem. No nagging is a good thing, of course. Except that he misses it.

 

As per the norm some part of Sherlock’s brain is constantly processing three to seven excuses for John not being here at the moment. He’s at work or at the grocer’s, out with his army mates, or even having his hair cut or he's visiting Harry. However, he also can’t shut down the process that reminds him that John is actually really _gone_. That he’s not here and won’t be any time soon. Sherlock wishes he could afford to delete this information.

 

oOo 

 

Sent:  
21:13 4/1/12 John Watson  
-Case. You coming? - SH

Received:  
21:22 4/1/12 John Watson  
-Right now?

Sent:  
21:23 4/1/12 John Watson  
-142 Malcolm Crescent. Will you come? - SH

Received:  
21:26 4/1/12 John Watson  
-Sorry. I’m in Brighton. Let me know if you need me to come over later.

 

Sherlock doesn’t text back.

 

oOo

 

“Freak.”

 

“The body?”

 

“All alone today? Where’s your boyfriend?”

 

Sherlock shoulders past the woman.

 

“Is John coming later?” Lestrade asks, but Sherlock ignores him too and crouches over the body.

 

“Male, late twenties,” he starts after a couple of minutes. “Does an odd mix of jobs, mostly as a waiter. Either he’s recently lost some kind of white collar job and can’t find anything suitable (possibly because of embezzlement or some other indiscretion which resulted in bad references) or he is still studying for some reason. Could be an aspiring artist or actor, but doubtful. Died somewhere outside, but dragged in here after death. Hit with a blunt object to the head; most probably in a fight or at least a struggle; in any case he didn’t go down quietly. If you can find the murder scene there might be witnesses. The murderer is about five foot ten, either bulky or overweight. Probably male, except if they had an accomplice, but I doubt that. The murderer left this way and was in a hurry; probably ran away in panic, there should be witnesses among shop keepers in that street.”

 

He leaves without answering any other questions Lestrade has.

 

The next day he arrives at the station to go over any new possible findings and to explain his theories. He hasn’t texted John again; he can take a hint. Sherlock sees people speculating about him showing up alone again, but the only comment he hears is from Donovan about being dumped. He snarls at her. He feels dumped, which is crazy because an intimate relationship with John has never been in the realm of possibilities in the first place.

 

All through January and February, Sherlock works. He goes through cases like a rocket through space except without the awe for the stars. He takes on everything offered by the police and solves some private affairs; is offensive, and complains about everything. He even undertakes things for Mycroft. Most times he forgets to ask for compensation and forgets to eat and sleep, but at least some of the time he forgets.

 

He ignores the inquiries about John’s absence and misses him terribly. It is difficult to work without an assistant, but even when there is someone at the scene who actually cooperates (not Anderson), it only makes Sherlock miss John even more. He wonders how he could possibly not have noticed how essential John had become to him. 

 

It’s not so bad, though, because Sherlock has a plan. It is unfortunate that it involves waiting, but needs must. If John wants him to get over his feelings, he’s going to show him that he has. Step one in his plan is pretending he has forgotten. He’ll wait two weeks more before executing the next step.

 

He will get John back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: Jethro Tull. Especially albums ‘Too Old to Rock and Roll, Too Young to Die’ and ‘Songs from the Woods’.  
> A/N: Set somewhere after the Baskerville, ignoring the Irene stuff, just because I dislike it. Artistic licence and all that. Two chapters. Also, lots of love to my betas for this piece - marinka and Swissmarg! I am truly grateful.   
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Even the chapter titles are from a very well-known book. A cookie to those who can guess what book it is. Only one cookie though, sorry, you’ll have to share. But it’s big. Huge even. Honestly! :D
> 
> BTW, review please? I's my first johnlock, and moreimportanly it's my firs gay fiction.


	2. …Where it comes from…

“John!” Sherlock gives a slight smile. He strives to seem surprised, but also as if the accidental meeting isn’t a big deal.

 

“Sherlock!” John seems shocked and for a beat even panicked. “What are you doing here?”

 

“We’re at the grocer’s. I have a shopping cart with – oh, look, groceries in here. What could I possibly be doing here?” Best keep lying to a minimum.

 

“Yes, but… Here?”

 

“I was on a case nearby. Thought I’d shop on my way home.”

 

“But you don’t drink milk.”

 

Sherlock glances into his cart. Blinks. “Habit. Anyway, how’s Harry?”

 

“Oh, well. She’s all right now that…”

 

The benign smile on Sherlock’s face turns somewhat wooden. “You take care of her.”

 

“I try.” John swallows and Sherlock has a feeling that for him, the meeting is not entirely pleasant. “Look, can we…?”

 

“Oh, yes of course.” Sherlock forces another smile. “Do carry on. We’ll talk some other time. I have to rush anyway.” Which is quite disappointing – understatement – since the next meeting is planned for the end of February in three weeks.

 

He nods and dashes away as if in a hurry. When he’s sure he’s out of sight, he carelessly wheels his shopping cart into a random aisle and steps out of the shop. It’s only in the taxi that Sherlock allows his eyes to water. He’s remembered how to cry after all.

 

oOo

 

In the end Sherlock gets lucky. He only has to wait for a week and a half instead of three, because John contacts him first. It’s a silly problem about Harry’s former employer wanting to implicate her in some kind of fraud. John apologises profusely, because the matter is indeed trivial, but Sherlock is only happy to help.

 

After the employer is disgraced, Harry hugs Sherlock in gratitude and sends them on their way, telling them to visit the ‘fantastic pub just around the corner’ and neither of them argues.

 

“Greg’s asked me for a pint a couple of times, you know,” John says, when they’ve sat down.

 

“Lestrade?” Sherlock frowns. “What did he want?”

 

“To know what happened, I suppose.”

 

“And what did you tell him?” He’s just curious, because he knows that John’s never anything but discreet.

 

“Told him I moved in with my sister to help her out.”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

After half a pint John blurts, “God, I’ve missed you.”

 

_I’ve missed you too_ , he wants to say but the plan is to make John believe Sherlock’s cooled down enough for it to be safe to come back home.

 

“It’s been difficult without you,” he can’t help but admit though. John seems startled, so he elaborates, “Work. Going on cases. Anderson’s still being revoltingly ignorant and you know that I need an assistant.”

 

John comes as close to smirking as he ever does. “Yes, I wonder what for.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “You know I need an average mind to point out…” He stops uncertainly. He wasn’t supposed to remind John of the superiority of his intellect so soon. In fact, he wasn’t even going to ask him to join any investigations just yet, but perhaps it’s what John expects, so he continues, “I would very much like it if you could come.” He clears his throat. “Next time I have a case, that is.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, but when he chances a look at John, he’s grinning. “I’d love to.”

 

There is nothing Sherlock can do to hold back his own wide grin and feel entirely foolish. From then on, the silences are more companionable and over the next half hour he learns that John’s been working at two clinics, holding Harry’s hand through a couple of rough patches, trying to reason with Clara, and that he’s generally been so busy that Sherlock’s grateful he’s been missed at all.

 

Sherlock’s dying to beg him to come back home, but doesn’t and leaves promising to get in touch.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock drafts several texts in his head which he doesn’t send and waits for an investigation which would at least seem to be worthy of his attention. He receives a call from Lestrade on the fourth day. Sherlock texts and luckily John’s already in London. His cab arrives just before Sherlock’s.

 

It’s a thrill to go in side by side. See the surprise on the crew’s faces, listen to John’s thoughts. Oddly, it’s not awkward at all. It’s familiar.

 

“John, glad to see you,” Lestrade greets. “How’s your sister?”

 

Vaguely, Sherlock feels jealous, because everybody seems so pleased to have John back on the scene, but mostly he feels proud that John has chosen to work beside him again. John Watson, who could make friends with anyone, still wants him as one. 

 

He tries to be not too obvious, but just having John at his side makes him double his efforts and he can’t help but show off a bit. When he finally hears the praise he used to be accustomed to, he has to turn around to hide his twitching lips.

 

oOo

 

“Finally something different.” Sherlock smiles.

 

John’s lips twitch. “You just had an interesting case.”

 

“That was a month ago!”

 

“Three weeks.”

 

They stare at the flag pole.

 

“That’s insane.” John cranes his head up to where the body is hanging. “Totally insane.”

 

“Not necessarily.” For a moment Sherlock contemplates demanding that the body be left where it is, but it would just be too inconvenient to examine up there at length. “In fact, it almost definitely isn’t.” He looks around. “Now where’s that bloody crane?”

 

John shakes his head. “But why would a sane person do this? Isn’t it too much trouble? The murderer must be mad to hang a body in front of a large corporate building like that. There are cameras, for God’s sake. And just before a workday.”

 

“That was probably the point.”

 

“You mean they wanted everybody to see them? What if they were recognised?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “They had masks.”

 

“Still too much of a risk.”

 

“The plan was rather thorough and the execution very careful. I’d say they succeeded.”

 

“You mean in warning someone from this building?”

 

“Or someones.”

 

“But they could have just killed the man and then told the relevant people that it was them.”

 

“And look at that - they did.”

 

“Oh, for the- Don’t look so pleased!” John is so obviously fighting a smile of his own that it’s impossible not to grin even wider. “We’re at a murder scene,” John hisses. “A very cruel and gruesome murder!”

 

“And has that ever stopped us before?”

 

John starts snickering, but tries to hide it behind his hand. Warmth spreads through Sherlock’s chest.

 

Finally the crane arrives. Almost four minutes goes for convincing Dimmock to let him up to examine the knots and fastenings, but then it’s smooth sailing and only six minutes for the ride up and lowering the body. On the ground Sherlock finishes his examination of what he’s been told is the body of the corporate chief executive.

 

After listening to Sherlock list his findings the DI leads them in to examine the dead man’s office. Sherlock feels giddy. He doesn’t try to fool himself – he knows it’s not only because of the case.

 

oOo

 

The next case takes three and a half days, the last twenty-four of which Sherlock is actually procrastinating. As John isn’t coming into the flat to brew tea while Sherlock lies on the sofa thinking, he is forced to manufacture reasons for spending more time with John. He wishes he could dawdle more, but doesn’t want to risk John cottoning on to it.

 

There are four cases over the course of six weeks, but then in June he’s in a lurch – there’s no case for seventeen days.

 

And then finally he receives a phone call.

 

“Lestrade.”

 

“You free for a pint?”

 

“A pint?” Sherlock sneers. “Since when do you want to have a pint with me? If you want to pick my brain I can come to the station tomorrow.”

 

“It’s not really a matter I’d like to discuss at the station.”

 

“I’m not interested in the Met’s politics.”

 

“It’s not about that. Look, I can come to your place right now if you prefer; I just thought you might appreciate a neutral ground.”

 

Sherlock has no idea what to think and it’s intriguing. He names a tolerable pub.

 

“You’re late,” he tells Lestrade almost forty minutes later.

 

“Traffic.” Lestrade doesn’t feel the need to elaborate as he slides into the corner booth with a pint in his hand, which is curious; he doesn’t usually drink while on duty.

 

It’s seven minutes later that Sherlock’s patience gives out. “So what’s so sensitive that you can’t discuss it at the station?” He dislikes pubs in the evenings.

 

“It’s not sensitive in a way you’re probably thinking. It has nothing to do with my work actually.” The inspector hesitates. “Just let it be stated before I say anything else that I am aware of it being absolutely none of my business.” He takes a large swallow of his drink.

 

Sherlock regards him with an unpleasant feeling in his gut. “So what you’re telling me is that you’re sticking your nose into mine.”

 

Lestrade stares into the crowd and then nods slowly. “And I’m also quite probably making a total fool of myself, so I’m asking you to keep this between us.”

 

“Nothing new there then.”

 

Lestrade snorts. “Not the fool part anyway.”

 

Sherlock waits for the other man to continue, but Lestrade just waits.

 

“Fine then,” he agrees after a minute. “Talk.”

 

“It’s about John.”

 

Sherlock blink s. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

 

“No. No trouble that I know of.” He pauses, and then, looking like a man jumping into the line of fire, says, “I saw John the other day. Well, evening. He was on a date.”

 

There’s silence and Sherlock is wondering what the hell he is supposed to say to that.

 

“Well. That’s it then.” Lestrade stands. “I’m off.”

 

“With whom?” Sherlock finds himself asking and hates himself for it.

 

“How should I know? I just saw them for half a minute.”

 

Sherlock clenches his jaw again. “Woman? Or a man?” Still staring at the table top, he sees Lestrade sit back down.

 

“I thought he was straight?” The policeman’s surprise is oddly comforting.

 

“So did I. Until Craig bloody Harper,” Sherlock bites out.

 

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “Sorry.”

 

Sherlock’s gaze snaps back up. “I don’t need your pity,” he says with venom.

 

“No pity.” Lestrade shakes his head. “No worries. I just… I kind of know how that feels. Being dumped.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “We’ve never been...” For some reason, admitting it aloud feels humiliating.

 

Lestrade nods. “But it feels like it, doesn’t it?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

 

oOo

 

For once Mycroft has a promising case for him. Intriguing. With blood and gore. The only glitch is that he has a silent agreement with John to involve him, but this time he’s oddly reluctant. Sherlock tells himself it has nothing to do with the news.

 

Of course, theoretically he knew that John has probably been seeing people again and it helps that the person he’s currently sharing John with is a woman, not a man. Although by this point it’s probably even too arrogant to say that he’s sharing John with anyone. Objectively speaking he doesn’t own John. Objectively, he has no say in what John does or who he sees.

 

Practically speaking, though, the next morning after his heart to heart with Lestrade, Sherlock boards a train to Brighton. Harry’s place isn’t big, but in rather better condition than Sherlock has been expecting. He times it so that John is still at the clinic when he arrives.

 

“Sherlock!” As expected Harry is indeed happy to see him and it’s not difficult to get her to offer him a cup of tea, excuse himself into the bathroom and then sneak quietly upstairs where he knows John’s bedroom to be.

 

Sherlock leaves the door open a few inches and steps further into the room. Inhales. It smells like John and looks like somewhere John would live, too – neat, not a thing out of place. Although at Baker Street his room was never quite this orderly. John must have more free time for on his hands now; less stress. Sherlock takes half a minute to commit all the details to memory for later analysis and leaves the room.

 

Quickly he slips back downstairs and into the bathroom. He notices several products John had used at Baker Street and some things he hadn’t; lots of woman stuff that clearly belongs to Harry and some that probably doesn’t. A girlfriend? And if yes, then whose? Three toothbrushes. Three. Disturbing.

 

Sherlock flushes for appearance’s sake and comes out. Soon he’ll know whose girlfriend has been staying over.

 

“Harry,” he says with a smile in his voice. The woman doesn’t know him well enough to detect its fake quality.

 

They only wait for fifteen minutes more and then John is there. With his girlfriend.

 

oOo

 

It’s bloody ridiculous to be stuck in a wax museum even if it is Madam Tussauds. Sherlock has no idea how he managed to drop his pick and now here he is, sitting in a dark corner, stuck between two motion detector beams. There’s a Japanese person with eighties hair on his left and some other famous Asian on his right, both of whose identities he is unable to detect. Perhaps he should stop deleting irrelevant information and try to store them in his palace dungeon instead?

 

The worst of it isn’t that he has been sitting here for almost two hours now, or that he’ll be forced to sit here over thirteen hours more. Getting back into the hot July air is not as tempting as it might otherwise have been. Besides, he is used to sitting and outwardly doing nothing, but usually he has a case to contemplate while doing it. He’s already solved this one – he only needed to see the inside of the personnel toilets on the second floor to do that. And wasn’t it just his luck that he didn’t manage to get out with the other guests before the security guard that was under no circumstances allowed to see him arrived on duty? Then it was just a matter of freezing in an obnoxious pose, his arm thrown around a random contemporary famous person in a suit, to fool another night guard.

 

Now, though, what he truly wishes for is his lumpy couch under him and some cushions instead of the hard floor and corner walls. He usually has his favourite dressing gown on while lounging around doing nothing and John… Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. No, John will most probably never bring him a cup of tea ever again. The best he can hope for is to have one with him on some kind of neutral ground where neither of them has gone through the ritual of preparing it.

 

The worst part is that he has absolutely nothing to do. So he just has to sit and try not to think about… Because if he starts… But that is of course an impossible feat and though Sherlock is not one to give up easily, this time he does. That is all he has of John now – his memories.

 

oOo

 

“She’s lovely,” Sherlock remarks dismissively. “Less stupid than most of your exes I suppose,” he adds then to be fair. He’s now accustomed to the idea of her. He’s met her and can tolerate her well enough. He just doesn’t like her. At all.

 

John snorts. “Smart enough for me.”

 

Objectively speaking Mary Morstan probably is a lovely girl. Woman. She does something for charity organisations and volunteers. Mrs Hudson even calls her pretty. Briefly, Sherlock contemplates being polite and attentive to her, but decides not to over-do it. He was never attentive to John’s other girlfriends; it would probably be suspicious if he started now.

 

And it’s all wrong. Sherlock’s supposed to be thinking about the case. Why did he even start talking about… He jumps up.

 

“Where are we going?” John asks, energetically folding his newspaper.

 

“Nowhere. No progress. Can’t think.” Sherlock moves to the window.

 

John frowns. “Need a patch? Or two?” Despite the suggesting it himself, John doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.

 

Sherlock still nods. “Yes. Good idea.”

 

Now relatively accustomed to fetching things for himself again, he moves for the bathroom.

 

“Sherlock, wait.”

 

He glances over his shoulder. John’s staring at the carpet, his face pensive.

 

“What?” He turns back into the room.

 

John sighs. “I know something’s wrong, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock feels his pulse quicken. “What do you mean?”

 

“You used to be able to sit still for hours when contemplating a case. Now you’re twitchy, pacing more than not, asking me about random things that you’re not really interested in, and you complain more frequently about your thought process. How… Is there… I wish you’d tell me. Despite… everything… I’m still your friend.”

 

John’s gaze is thoughtful and concerned. Sherlock’s mouth is suddenly dry and he has to swallow. “Nothing’s wrong.”

 

“But there has to be. Sherlock…” He pauses and then visibly braces himself. “Tell me the truth: are you using?" 

 

"What? No!" Sherlock frowns. "I... no." 

 

For a moment John stares at him, then sighes and looking as if he wished the ground to swallow him, asks, "All right then." For a beat he hesitates, but then shoulders on, "Is it me then?”

 

“No,” Sherlock lies immediately, his heart picking up. “No, it’s… No,” he finishes, unable to think of anything believable.

 

For a minute John searches his face. “Stop that,” he says then with quiet force. “You’re deducing the best way to throw me off right now, aren’t you?” He shakes his head in disapproval. “If something is wrong, I’d like to help. If I can. It’s really not drugs, is it? You haven’t been using…?”

 

“No,” Sherlock denies it despite the drugs being the perfect cover. “I think… I think I haven’t been sleeping well since you left.”

 

“But you never sleep well.” John frowns. “Or at least enough.”

 

“Well, it’s been… worse.”

 

John rubs his forehead unhappily. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Slowly, he sets his folded newspaper aside. He looks contemplative and Sherlock makes a spur-of-the-moment decision.

 

“Not your fault,” he mutters unconvincingly, and for a tiny, little moment actually feels a twinge of guilt.

 

John’s eyes narrow. “You’re not going to guilt me into moving back.”

 

Sherlock exhales. “Worth a try. At least you’re back to making me tea occasionally.” He shrugs and smiles in a way he’s been told looks charming on him. But of course, John knows him too well.

 

There’s a minute of silence and then John smiles tiredly. “Mary asked me to move in with her.”

 

_Explosion. Smoke. Confusion_. Sherlock shakes his head. He sits back down on the sofa.

 

_But you don’t love her._

 

“I just can’t see myself moving back here and I can’t stay at my sister’s forever,” John continues. “You know we don’t really get along.”

 

“But you don’t love her,” Sherlock repeats his own thoughts stupidly.

 

For a moment John stills. “Low blow, Holmes. Just because…” John’s face is flushed in anger and resentment. “Mary and I are good together. Despite what you know about me or… anything really- We’re good.” He pauses and continues more calmly, “I said I’d think about it.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head again. “Isn’t it a bit too soon? How long has it been anyway? A few weeks?”

 

“Almost three months actually. And I like her more than others. More than Craig even.”

 

Unexpectedly, it hurts. “But you don’t love her,” he mutters stubbornly.

 

“Is being right really that important to you?” John sighs. “Stupid question, sorry. Fine, yes. I don’t love her yet. But I could. I can definitely see myself building a future with her and I’m not lying to her about it. I’m not making any false promises to her, so... And… the point is…” He’s looking at the carpet now. “The point is that no matter what you might think about it, I have to move on.” 

 

Sherlock’s heart rises into his throat. “You mean… move on from…” _Us? Me._

 

John nods resignedly. “This thing… Why I moved out in the first place, it’s not… better.”

 

It’s not a question and for what feels like for the thousandth time, Sherlock feels like an utter failure.

 

“I tried,” he says tersely. “I tried to stay away from you, just like you wanted me to, but I just can’t and you could have said no. I didn’t make you come on the cases with me. I…”

 

“I don’t blame you, Sherlock.” John sounds weary. “I know it’s not your fault and I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel like it is.”

 

But Sherlock never meant to accuse John either. It’s himself that he’s furious with. He was supposed to be over it by now, or at least learnt to hide it better, but John still sees it plain as day.

 

“But it is my fault,” he insists. “I know I’m defective.”

 

And again it seems that he’s said exactly the wrong thing because suddenly John looks horrified.

 

“What! Where is that coming from? My God! You’re…” Suddenly he’s on his knees before Sherlock, holding his face between his hands and Sherlock closes his eyes, because it’s so good to be touched like this.

 

“You’re not defective!” John exclaims. “Whoever made you feel that way was wrong. You’re a brilliant man, Sherlock Holmes! And everybody is different. Everybody is supposed to be different. Just because you can’t… It doesn’t matter! And nobody can change how they feel… or don’t feel. So…” He pauses and continues more quietly, “I don’t mind the way you are. You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

 

Sherlock opens his eyes and watches the best man he’s ever known. “Thank you,” he says and although what he just heard cannot be true – not entirely anyway –, the corners of his mouth curl up bit. It’s enough that John feels that way right now, even if it is temporary.

 

“If you don’t mind how I am, move back in. Please. I’ll stay out of your way. You won’t have to cook for me and I will do my own laundry and dishes.” Their foreheads are touching and Sherlock feels John start to shake his head slowly. Sherlock closes his eyes in acknowledgment even as he continues pleading in his own head, _“I’ll buy another fridge for my experiments. You can have Mary over if you wish – I’ll even make myself scarce if you give me the heads up. Name your own price, John, but move back in. Please.”_ But he says nothing.

 

“I bet you’ve run Mrs Hudson haggard.” John sighs gently, almost mournfully. “And if I don’t cook for you, you won’t eat at all.”

 

Sherlock snorts quietly. “True.”

 

“But I cannot live with you.”

 

Sherlock’s voice turns rough. “And I cannot live without you.”

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ShahbanouScheherazade on ffnet helped to identify the closest park to Baker Street (Regent’s Park) and betas are marinka and Swissmarg. The idea of Madam Tussauds belongs to jack63kids. Thank you all so much! 
> 
> And cute happy-inducing cookies for those of you who's left a review or kudos! :) Was the second chapter everything you expected?


	3. …Or where it is going…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Forgot to mention that the inspiration for this story came after reading ‘The Everthere’ by hbomb90 on LiveJournal. For all of you that has acquired a miscommunication kink, that is a story for you. Both stories (the one I mentioned and mine) start with the one of the boys starting dating and the other being oblivious. Betas are still marinka and Swissmarg. Thank you! :)
> 
> Btw, the 221b I posted earlier, ‘The Chase in the Underground’ is a shorter version converted of a scene from the third chapter, so what you are going to read here is longer. I hope not too tedious.  
> Also – sorry it took me so long. RL is as hectic as always.
> 
> And now onward for the last chapter. :)

When Sherlock finally uncurls on the sofa the next day, his limbs feel awkward and it is getting dark again. He recalls Mrs Hudson coming twice trying to rouse him, but he paid her no mind. Now, though, he needs something to drink.

 

The next several hours he spends with his violin, and this time Mrs Hudson has to make three trips up to remind him that discordant notes are not music. The last time she also complains about her hip. It’s at this point that Sherlock remembers to send Lestrade the text about the culprit.

 

Sherlock puts his violin away. His plan has crashed. Spectacularly. He knew that John would not react favourably to Sherlock displaying his feelings, but he never expected him to tear out of the flat as if devils were on his heels. Right now Sherlock isn’t at all sure if he’ll ever see John again. Certainly he’ll never move back in. And suddenly Sherlock cannot stand staying here a minute longer – the hiding place John doesn’t know about is mocking him full of false promises of oblivion. The solution would only take him… But no, he cannot fall back on that. Never on that.

 

There’s only one obvious choice for now. Bart’s.

 

oOo

 

“Sherlock!” he hears several hours later.

 

He doesn’t answer nor look at Molly; his eyes are still glued to the microscope eyepiece.

 

She sighs. “It’s past ten, Sherlock. I need to go home.”

 

Sherlock grunts.

 

“And lock up.” There’s a pause. “Now?”

 

He knows that that’s as assertive as Molly’s going to get and he doesn’t care. He grabs another sample.

 

“I’m calling John,” she mutters.

 

“No!” Sherlock startles the both of them. “Fine. Fine, I’m going.”

 

He gets his coat on before reaching the lifts.

 

It’s chilly outside, but it doesn’t register until much later. He moves through the streets telling himself he’s on recon and recruiting, and actually does find out some potentially interesting information about a couple of people he likes to keep his eye on. At some point he notices that the pubs have probably been closed for a while and as he considers the average all-nighters disgusting, he keeps on walking.

 

Suddenly he finds himself outside of a stately white house with pillars, sharp-tipped fence and a top-notch security system. He debates trying to pick the lock, but in the end decides to ring the doorbell.

 

Mycroft, when he opens, looks vaguely worried. “Sherlock?”

 

“Were you asleep? I rang twice.”

 

Mycroft’s face turns into his default polite expression and he steps aside to let Sherlock in. “It’s half four.”

 

Sherlock isn’t surprised. “You’ve got a spare room, I presume.”

 

“Fire, explosion or flood?” Mycroft inquires with mild curiosity, moving up the stairs.

 

“You may stop the pretense. We both know that if anything happened at the flat you’d already know.”

 

“Is everything all right with John?” Mycroft asks, his tone deceptively indifferent.

 

“Third from the left?” Sherlock gestures towards the door.

 

Mycroft nods and offers, “If you need anything…,” but Sherlock steps into the guest room and closes the door.

 

The next day Sherlock only exits his room once he’s sure Mycroft has left for work, and the house just before his brother’s anticipated return. He spends the evening at a restaurant where he knows he can have some semblance of privacy.

 

At dusk, he returns to Baker Street. The windows are dim and stairs creak piteously. He walks up and is almost into his room when there’s a noise. Sherlock raises his head.

 

“You’ve always had a knack for surprising me,” he states.

 

John stands. “I’m sorry for intruding,” he says politely. “It’s late. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

 

“You know I won’t sleep anyway.” Sherlock puts the overhead lights on and John blinks.

 

“Oh? A case?”

 

Sherlock snorts bitterly. “Not really. How long-“ He interrupts himself and makes himself glance at the form of his ex-flatmate. “You could have texted.”

 

“I did.”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock takes out his phone. Six messages, three of them from John. “Sorry,” he mutters, scrolling through them. He cancels the silent mode.

 

John clears his throat. “I actually came to apologise.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. _Apologise_. That doesn’t make sense.

 

“Yes, I…” John answers the unspoken question. “I left rather abruptly the other evening.” He clears his throat again to elaborate, but Sherlock’s had enough.

 

“Yes, well. That’s fine. You were upset and so was I,” he says briskly, busying himself with taking the coat off. “I understand. Was there anything else?” He strives for a polite tone, but he wants John gone. If he’s not going to move back in, then Sherlock won’t be staying either. He’s going to gather his essentials and stay at a hotel for a few days. Or possibly some cheap bedsit, which is more in his price range at the moment. Or crash at Molly’s - she wouldn’t kick him out, would she?

 

In his peripheral vision he can see John swallowing rather painfully, and irrationally he feels something grip and squeeze his heart.

 

“Anatomically impossible,” he mutters half-angrily.

 

“Sorry?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head to clear it. “It is I who should be apologising.” His voice is strong but he cannot look at John. “I seem to be constantly intruding where I’m not wanted.” He sees John’s head tilt and eyebrows furrow. “I’m going to move out of here. So if you wish, you may move back in. Find another…” The idea of John living with anyone else is unbearable. “However, if you should decide to… move in with Mary. I'm asking you- Not here.”

 

A part of him is appalled at his inability of formulating a sentence, but most of his brain seems to be otherwise occupied. Finally, Sherlock knows it’s over. There’s not a chance John will ever consent to share his living space with him now that he knows Sherlock is still in love with him.

 

“I… All right.”

 

John’s voice is tentative, and in the hope there will no additional questions Sherlock just nods. He’s going to start packing as soon as John’s out. He’s-

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock’s gaze snaps at John. “Pardon?”

 

“I don’t understand. Why would you move out? Because if it’ about living alone... You can probably find someone else-“

 

“Right.” It comes out more aggressively than he likes and he moves to the window to stare out of it. Maybe if he ignores him, John will just leave.

 

“But you love this flat!”

 

Apparently not. Sherlock tries to regulate his breathing, he closes his eyes, ignores the suffocating ball of dry heat for two seconds, but the pressure is too much, too much-too much-too-

 

“And I- I… feel like that about you too, but can’t have you either,” he says, breathing rapidly. He leans his head on the arm propped on the window frame. “In my mind you still live here. I cannot sit in either armchair, because in mine I can see you _not_ sitting across from me, and in yours the whole perspective is just wrong. The post-its on the desk, see? You left them and they are not there because I rarely clean. I haven’t been able to move anything you’ve left or even _moved_ , John.” He huffs, frustrated. “I know it’s a stage of grief, you don’t have to point it out, thank you.” He swallows, his mouth set into a bitter grimace. “Sometimes I open the fridge to put something in there, and it bloody _hurts_ , because I suddenly remember that you’re not going to grumble about it, and sometimes I buy milk, though I never drink it.” He pauses, and continues more calmly, “So you see, I cannot stay here.”

 

Then Sherlock makes the mistake of turning around to lean on the windowsill. John is still standing in the same spot – frozen, looking at him, anguished, torn by some kind of inner doubt and all Sherlock can think is, _I did that_.

 

And then to Sherlock’s utter shock John has tears in his eyes.

 

“You shouldn’t say things like that. It might make one think…” John chokes out. “I don’t understand. Is this some kind of experiment? A test? What? What exactly are you saying?”

 

A sudden bout of frustration mixed with hot searing anger spikes through Sherlock and he shouts, “Stop it! Stop. It. Now! This ‘I don’t understand’ business. What is this complicated matter that you constantly fail to comprehend? Do you even know what love feels like?” He starts pacing. “I thought I was supposed to be emotionally stilted, not you! And stop looking so tortured!” he accuses, flailing with his hands wildly. “You know what it does to me, seeing you in so much pain because of me? I- I… God, John! I… How can _you_ be hurt? That is what I don’t understand. How can you be this hurt when it’s _me_ constantly being rejected!”

 

And Sherlock is so much out of his depth here because he has no idea how he manages to make John go from hurt to this angry so quickly.

 

“You utter bastard!” John hisses. “You’re so… so. Selfish! You’re so bloody self-absorbed that there is absolutely no way you know anything about _love_!” He almost spits the word. “So if you would be so kind… and stopped talking about things you know nothing about.”

 

For a moment the only thing Sherlock can do is to stare. Then his mouth twists. Forgetting his coat, he storms out of the flat and onto the street. He doesn’t see the people or cars or buildings, he just pushes himself through the mass of something to get away, away, away.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock finally recognises his own idiocy somewhere between the trickling cold rain finding its way through his suit jacket and biting cold wind turning his bones numb. When a random duck from Regent’s Park crosses his way, quacking at him accusingly, Sherlock decides to go back home. The chances of John still being there are slim and he can’t turn up at his brother’s twice. Not in his current state.

 

When he is out of the Park’s gates a sleek black sedan stops at the kerb right in front of him. The door opens and he gets into the car. This is one of the rare instances when he’s glad about Mycroft’s aversion to legwork.

 

“Baker Street first. I need to change,” he tells the driver.

 

But his ride does not turn towards his flat nor does it take him to any of Mycroft’s workplaces. Instead, they pull up at the same private house where he spent the night previously. Brow furrowed, he gets out of the car.

 

“I’ve drawn you a bath upstairs. Your things are going to be here in an hour,” is all his brother tells him when he opens his door.

 

Soaking in the tub, Sherlock cannot suppress the melancholy feeling that he’s six again. He remembers playing where he shouldn’t, stumbling on some loose boards and falling, remembers getting caught in the attic by his older brother because he couldn’t stop crying, and Mycroft then applying a plaster to his banged-up knee instead of turning him in.

 

A part of him thinks that he should feel humiliated, but he doesn’t, because it turns out to be natural to be taken care of by your big brother when you really need it and he’s not trying to make you feel like an idiot.

 

“What did John tell you?” Sherlock asks later as they are sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of tea in front of them.

 

“Just that you might need a place to stay.”

 

Sherlock nods. He doesn’t have any illusions about Mycroft not knowing more than what he’s been told, though.

 

“Are you going to tell me more?” the big brother enquires, his voice free of the usual patronising tone.

 

“Do I really need to? You have us under surveillance, don’t you?”

 

Mycroft’s facial expression doesn’t change much, but Sherlock still sees Mycroft trying to hide his bewildered hurt. It seems surprisingly genuine.

 

“Just the outside. You don’t think I’ve been actually listening in, do you?”

 

“Of course not,” he amends. “But I don’t think you have to.” He leaves it at that and it’s only several hours of violin playing later that they talk again.

 

oOo

 

_Sent:_  
05:24 28/7/12 John Watson  
Even if I am selfish, I do know about love. - SH 

 

oOo

 

On the third day of his stay Sherlock has ‘the talk’ he’s been anticipating.

 

“First, there is one thing I need you to know, Sherlock. Despite what you might think about me, I do care about your wellbeing. You’re my little brother and since we didn’t have that much of a father… You know I’ve always taken care of you and even when it has been in ways you have not appreciated, I’ve always done what I thought best.”

 

Sherlock is so thrown off by his brother’s startlingly honest expression that the only things that spring to mind are sarcastic comments, but luckily Mycroft continues before he can say anything.

 

“I know I’ve made mistakes and for them – whether you believe me or not - I am sorry. But you must admit that at least some of my reactions have been a direct result of your own actions. However… Right now, in spite of desperately wanting to tell you off for being the most pig-headed man amongst all the brilliant people I currently have the honour of knowing, I will not do so.”

 

Sherlock blinks and waits. Mycroft sighs.

 

“I know it hasn’t been exactly plain sailing for you; certainly not in your childhood and it seems that not recently either, but I would like to help you if you let me.” He pauses. “First, is there anything, anything at all, you would like to talk to about?”

 

Sherlock stares at his brother intently, looking for clues to some kind of double meaning, but there is no hint of the usual mocking or attempts at manipulation. The apparent brotherly concern is baffling. Sherlock frowns, thinks of formulating a question, but then just shakes his head.

 

Mycroft answers Sherlock’s searching gaze with his own and after a moment nods. “My second question is if there is anything practical that I can actually help with.”

 

“It’s strange seeing you so straightforward,” Sherlock replies when feels that his brain is back again at its full capacity. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

 

Mycroft’s seriousness in tempered with slight amusement. “Yes, I’m pretty sure that I am. Thank you for your concern. And what about you?”

 

Sherlock’s lips curl upwards. “Ah! There he is!”

 

“That you never fail to ignore plain inquiries and generally react favourably only to not so subtle manipulation is not my failing.” There’s a pause, but when Sherlock just keeps smiling at him, Mycroft continues, “Do you need me to be more subtle right now?”

 

“No.” He doesn’t say that Mycroft’s uncharacteristic candour feels strangely comforting.

 

Mycroft nods. “So. Either then?” he asks after a while.

 

Sherlock turns serious. “No, thank you.”

 

It is tempting to tell Mycroft about John’s irrational behaviour, but his brother is only a third party to the situation. Uncharacteristically, his brother doesn’t push for confessions.

 

“Fine. Allow me to impart a piece of advice then.” Mycroft pauses and Sherlock already knows that he won’t like what he’s going to hear. “The advice is this - you should under no circumstances let your fear of intimacy interfere with what you have with John Watson.”

 

Sherlock almost exhales in frustration, but refrains. There is nothing he wishes more than to tell Mycroft how inappropriate his advice is or how typical it is of him to simply assume that Sherlock is the one at fault again, or even just to say what an utter, complete crap he’s spouting, but what comes out instead is a cold, “Yes, thank you.”

 

“All right.” His brother seems to have expected his reaction, and as Sherlock opens his mouth for a harsh retort, Mycroft interrupts him. “I have a case for you.”

 

Surprised, Sherlock hears him out without saying a word and for almost six days and a half, he works. When he returns from Germany, he visits Lestrade and goes over several cases that had turned cold during his absence. This time around he can actually feel the pitying stares, and he still keeps checking his phone, although he knows that if John hasn’t answered yet, there’s little chance he will do so without further prompting.

 

oOo

 

_Sent:_  
22:26 5/8/12 John Watson  
I wish you’d explain it to me so that I could understand - SH 

_Sent:_  
01:13 6/8/12 John Watson  
I’ve analysed the situation from all the angles I can think of and I’m still not seeing what exactly you are angry about. - SH 

_Sent:_  
01:32 6/8/12 John Watson  
I know how slow you are at typing and you are not that slow. - SH 

_Sent:_  
01:35 6/8/12 John Watson  
Just realised how late it was. Talk to you tomorrow? - SH 

_Sent:_  
14:31 6/8/12 John Watson  
You’ve still not replied. Still angry or just thinking? I know you're not at work right now. - SH 

_Sent:_  
16:54 6/8/12 John Watson  
You’re a fair person, so I know you’d have already contacted me if you felt you were wrong. So I have to be, but I just don’t see it. What did I say? I will apologise if you just explain it to me. - SH 

_Sent:_  
18:03 6/8/12 John Watson  
John? 

_Sent:_  
02:24 7/8/12 John Watson  
Either you’re being unreasonable or I’m being absolutely dim, and we both know the latter is not possible. – SH 

_Sent:_  
02:26 7/8/12 John Watson  
Are you drinking with Harry? - SH 

_Sent:_  
03:03 7/8/12 John Watson  
It’s late again. Though it seems it doesn’t matter, you’ve either blocked me or turn your phone off every time I start texting. Talk to you tomorrow? - SH 

_Sent:_  
13:12 7/8/12 John Watson  
I’m contemplating asking Molly for advice on it. – SH 

_13:13 7/8/12 John Watson  
I’ll have to tell her everything, you realise. - SH_

_Sent:_  
13:19 7/8/12 John Watson  
Do you want me to ask Molly? Or Lestrade perhaps? - SH 

_Sent:_  
13:20 7/8/12 John Watson  
Mycroft? - SH 

_Sent:_  
14:07 7/8/12 John Watson  
If you don’t get in touch before tomorrow, I’m talking to Molly. – SH 

_Sent:_  
18:44 7/8/12 John Watson  
And I know you don’t have a shift until Monday. - SH 

 

oOo

 

Sherlock stops, panting. Hears distant footsteps and freezes. The footsteps come closer. Closer. Now they are somewhere farther back at the previous juncture, just behind him. Sherlock would prefer to run, but the other man has a gun and he will hear. Sherlock hasn’t acquired a weapon for himself yet, because John was always there with him before to share the thrill of the chase. But now John’s not here. And no gun and the echo of the heavy steps are quite close now.

 

Sherlock holds his breath.

 

_Beep._

 

‘Shit!’ he thinks, but his assailant doesn’t seem to have heard and Sherlock can’t afford rustling in his coat to turn the phone off. The footsteps are just around the corner. Perhaps Sherlock has fooled him and he’ll turn left now instead of right? But then he hears the second sets of footsteps. They are far off still, but there are two pursuers and two tunnels; would the other man have a gun too?

 

“Did you see him?” Sherlock hears just around the corner.

 

There’s an answer in the negative, and Sherlock presses himself even deeper into the alcove. He wishes he’d contacted John for this particular adventure. He’d have come if Sherlock had said that he needed him. Probably.

 

And then there’s a train. _Finally!_ Sherlock runs in the wake of it to the next juncture and amid the lingering noise to the next, but the noise fades too soon and he can still hear the men running. They have fallen behind, though, and one set of footsteps is quickly fading away, but Sherlock hides in another alcove just in case.

 

It takes him two more trains to lose his pursuers altogether and reach a station to take a tube home.

 

He fishes out his mobile.

 

_Received:_  
14:04 8/8/12 John Watson  
All right. Let’s talk. I can come over now if you like. - John 

 

Sherlock grips the handrail as he stands in the shaking tube car.

 

_Fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Breathe. Just breathe._

 

 _Sent:_  
14:06 8/8/12 John Watson  
I’ll be there in twenty. – SH

 

When he arrives at Baker Street, John is standing at the flat door.

 

“You still have the keys,” Sherlock can’t help but snap.

 

“Yes, but it seemed kind of presumptuous-“

 

“All right. Fine.” Sherlock strides up the stairs, into the room, removes his coat and sits on the sofa. “Well?”

 

John blinks. “Are you all right? You look…”

 

“I’m fine. Explain.”

 

John nods and sits in his customary armchair. Seeing John there warms Sherlock, but then he remembers that it’s no more than temporary charity and the suffocating feeling of resentment returns.

 

John opens his mouth. Closes it. “You’re angry,” he says then.

 

“Astute. You surprise me.” He raises his eyebrows. 

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you angry with me before. Is it because I ignored you for two days?”

 

“Two and a half.” Sherlock grinds his teeth. “Now. I believe that you are here to explain to me, why my feelings mean less than yours.”

 

John’s eyes widen and for a second he’s simply gaping. “I don’t think I’ve ever even alluded to anything like that.”

 

“Then I must have misunderstood. I remember telling you how I felt about staying in this place, and you accusing me of trying to experiment on you and then calling me selfish.” John had also said that Sherlock didn’t know what love was, but despite how much it had hurt at the time, he doesn’t think that the words were meant as anything else than an angry insult.

 

“That’s not- I was confused. You don’t usually show how you feel and… I don’t think that your feelings are less important, just that... They are different.” Sherlock opens his mouth but John shakes his head. “Not important. That’s not why I called you selfish.” He visibly braces himself. “I called you selfish because as I understood at the time – and I might be wrong here, but that was how it sounded to me – it sounded as if you were implying that our current situation was hurting you more than it did me.”

 

“But I did mean that. Do you disagree?” Sherlock asks, but then the knife is driven home because suddenly he understands, and it’s all he can do not to double over in pain. This is not what he’d been expecting. Nothing even close.

 

“Are you all right?” he hears. Sherlock swallows, not looking at John. “Fine,” he says after a long moment. “Fine. I understand perfectly now. Thank you for explaining.”

 

It’s an effort to stand up, pick up his coat and put it on. Every movement seems to hurt. He still cannot look at John.

 

“Sherlock? You look grey. What is it?”

 

Sherlock’s at the door, but somehow John’s already there. He reaches to touch Sherlock’s cheek.

 

“Don’t!” Sherlock staggers back. “What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you dare touch me!” He goes for the other door through the kitchen, but John is there too.

 

“Wait! Sherlock, what’s wrong? Oh, sodding-”

 

Somehow Sherlock is being manhandled back on the sofa. He feels dizzy and sick and hot. John sits down next to him, but not touching, on the sofa with a mix of frustration and concern all over his face. Sherlock looks away.

 

“Thank you for everything, John. It’s probably best if you leave.”

 

John grabs his hand.

 

“You don’t mean just for right now, do you?” He sounds a bit desperate and a tiny part of Sherlock revels in satisfaction. “Is this a goodbye, Sherlock? After all we’ve been through together you’re finally making me go?”

 

Sherlock feels past crying, but has to swallow back a sob anyway. “You just practically told me that you don’t think I am even capable of any deep feeling. Of love. If you really meant that… Then I don’t blame you for moving out.”

 

“Oh. But…” John sounds confused. “I didn’t really mean it like that. It’s just that. In this situation here, I don’t think-”

 

“You don’t think.” Sherlock does the impossible and looks his former flatmate right in the eye. “You don’t think I can love _you_? How is that any better?”

 

“I suppose it isn’t, but… But you have to admit that what you are calling love right now is probably a bit closer to friendship than what-“

 

“Friendship? You’re calling it friendship! If that’s what you really think then I don’t see the problem at all – if we both have friendly feelings for each other, where’s the disparity that was supposed to be hurting you?”

 

Sherlock jumps up and starts pacing.

 

“Where do you get off telling me I cannot possibly be in love with you, when that first time we talked about it, you claimed to have noticed that my feelings for you had changed several _months_ ago? Even before _I_ knew!” He turns to look at John, who’s now staring at him, mouth slightly open. “You were the one that used the word ‘love’ to describe my condition. You were the one that gave a name to my overwhelming need for you.” His mouth twists and he turns away. “And I didn’t mind. I told you I didn’t. It was never about you loving me back. I know I’m not very… And I don’t expect you to start now either, so...” He shrugs, helpless.

 

John seems to be frozen as if something about Sherlock loving him is clearly too horrible to contemplate. It hurts, by God it hurts, but Sherlock’s been delicate long enough and now it’s time to get it all out.

 

“I told you I was perfectly happy with being your friend. And I had stopped disrupting your dates. Mostly. When I saw that it really bothered you.” He shrugs and has to swallow because now comes the hard part. “And I still don’t understand… What is so terrible about me loving you that you had to move out?”

 

He shuts up, but not because he’s finally made his case, but because now John seems to have reached some kind of conclusion and is looking at Sherlock with a face full of pure horror.

 

“You… love me?” John chokes as if it’s such a shocking revelation.

 

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock barks impatiently. “You already know that. You said you couldn’t live with the disparity, remember?”

 

Slowly, so very slowly John’s head moves towards the window, but his eyes do not leave Sherlock’s. Then equally slowly his head moves all the way back to the left, and only when the movement continues to the right again, Sherlock realises that John is actually shaking his head.

 

“Noo…” John draws the word out. “No.” His head stops moving to stare at Sherlock as if he’s never seen him before.

 

“No?” He frowns because John’s eyes have started glowing with awe and happiness and it makes even less sense than everything else.

 

“No.” John’s headshake is normal now. “What you are actually telling me right now is that when I talked to you about the ‘disparity’ you thought I was talking about you being in love with me?”

 

Sherlock blinks and suddenly the gears in his brain halt and start turning the other way. New route. Impossible route. Impossible truth. Wonderful truth. Obvious solution. His eyes widen.

 

“I’m such an idiot,” he whispers his voice full of wonder.

 

“No, I am the idiot,” John says. “You are just socially challenged.” He stands abruptly. “I should have…”

 

“Talked more plainly. Yes.” Sherlock is still staring at John, wanting to step closer, but being for some reason unable to do so. 

“I was trying to be delicate,” John explains, stands up, but is also apparently stuck where he is. “Well, in all honesty, you could have talked straight too. You usually do.”

“I was caught unawares. You said you were leaving me.”

“Right. And I thought that you were just a brain with a transport.” John stuffs his hands in his pockets.

 

Sherlock winces. “Yes, that’s the usual spiel I give when people are coming on to me.”

 

“But I wasn’t coming on to you!” John exclaims indignantly.

 

“You weren’t?”

 

“No!” John’s answer is quite emphatic and Sherlock wonders how he always keeps misreading him.

 

Then he feels John’s arm snake around Sherlock’s waist and he’s drawn closer. John stops smiling quite so wide and looks him in the eye, then at his lips. “I’m going to kiss you now, is that okay?”

 

Sherlock blinks. “I… don’t know.” Thankfully, John seems to be done with being delicate and leans in. Sherlock’s heart beat picks up even more as John’s lips touch the corner of his mouth.

 

It’s… different, better, exhilarating and for the first time in his life Sherlock understands what the exchange of saliva is actually supposed to achieve, and then for a while there’s no thinking at all.

 

**The End**

**_You can hear the wind, but you don't know where it comes from or where it is going.  
-John 3:8_ **

**AN** : Thank you for reading. I hope no one is disappointed.


End file.
